Dean Winchester's Type
by deanial
Summary: "Let me make abundantly obvious to you all." Dean announced, slamming the beer harshly onto a coaster. "I do not have fetishes. I do not have a 'type' of male and I certainly do not want to bang an Angel of the Lord." FLUFF/HUMOUR ONESHOT.


Dean Winchester doesn't have a type.  
_Or the three times Dean almost pulled a guy, and the one time he pulled an angel._

**I.  
**  
There are many places this story could start. It could start on the night when Dean first considered interspecies homosexual relations or- as he would specify it- the cold, charcoal black evening when Castiel first appeared in front of Dean and declared that he was the one who gripped the hunter tight and raised him from perdition.

It could start on the night when Dean discovered he was growing a uterus and a couple hundred ovaries to match, or- what he'd write in his journal if he actually had one- that time he turned around to see Castiel asleep in his baby, his Impala, all spread out and wide mouthed and completely unflattering but so god damn adorable.

Incidentally, for the sake of saving time and clichés, this story begins one almost ordinary evening. An evening that made Dean realise he had to took take a good, long, hard look at himself in the mirror, pucker up those plump lips of his, and do something life altering.

An evening wherein Sam got laid, and Dean didn't.

"She's not even hot." Dean mumbled into his beer bottle, leaning over the rickety, wooden table and glaring at his oversized, pompous dick of a brother grinning stupidly at some tall, leggy, brunette tart.

"She's a hell of a lot prettier than that chick that denied you a few minutes ago." Bobby grumbled, already rosy cheeked and half gone after his fourth shot of whiskey. Even with the rustic atmosphere of the pub and the low, country music adding to the friendly buzz of the place, Bobby still looked slightly uncomfortable joining the two boys on their drinking night. Unfortunately for him, Dean and Sam had practically thrown a hissy fit when he'd politely refused to leave his chair: declaring that saving the world one evil son of a bitch at a time was enough to keep him satisfied.

Dean was thoroughly regretting the decision to bring him along now. "See, this is why we don't invite you out." He snapped, taking another swig of his beer and glancing at the other women so pathetically uninterested in him. Maybe it was the old man vibe Bobby was giving off, or the fact his wingman was off hitting on some whore instead of sitting his ass down where it should be. This was friday night, drinking night, _family _night, and Sam bloody well knew that.

"The ladies sure don't want you tonight." Bobby slurred, clumsily swallowing his fifth shot. Dean was not looking forward to dragging his lump back home on his own, but he couldn't blame the guy for taking the opportunity to get pissed when he was presented with it so easily. Dean wanted to get off his head, he really did, but when the enthusiasm to drink wasn't there he just feel like a lonely alcoholic drinking away daddy issues with every drop of hunter's helper he had. "But the guy by the bar seems to want your sweet ass on his lap."

Dean spat what beer he had in his mouth at the time cleanly over the table top. Bobby didn't notice.

"What? Bobby you're drunker than I thought." He coughed, slapping his chest to get rid of whatever was clogging it up. He was so not tempted, not even a little bit, to glance at his apparent admirer. His apparent _male _admirer. Whoa, no. Not today.

"Jus' sayin' what I see, boy." Bobby grinned. "What's wrong, he not your type?" Bobby practically cooed the last sentence, complete with a fluttering of eyelashes and a loving sigh. One more shot and he'd be swooning off the bar stool just to make his point sink in.

"Of course he isn't." Sam interjected, strutting over to the table with his female friend stuck to his side, grinning up at him every ten or so seconds as if she couldn't believe to have made such a catch. Sam made a grand show of putting his arm around her waist, before extending his neck to look in the same direction as Bobby. "He hasn't got wings for a start."

Dean shouldn't have taken another mouthful of beer, because that one was almost instantly showered back onto the table. Drink, however, was suddenly seeming much more necessary.

"Dude. Your chick." Dean glared, nodding towards whatever her name was.

"She doesn't mind if my brother has weird fetishes for guys in trench coats." His little brother smirked, pulling her nearer as she gave Dean a very confused, almost sympathetic smile.

Whore.

"Let me make abundantly obvious to you all." Dean announced, slamming the beer harshly onto a coaster. "I do not have fetishes. I do not have a 'type' of male. The guy over there is not checking me out and I certainly do not want to bang an Angel of the Lord. Especially one in a trench coat. Do I make myself clear?"

Sam took that as his moment to choke on his own laughter as a brief but prominent footstep alerted Dean to a certain angel's presence.

"Dean." The low, gruff- not at all arousing- voice stated simply, but Dean could almost hear the infamous head tilt of curiosity in that one word.

"Castiel." Dean cringed, closing his eyes as he turned to give the angel a very false grin. "I do love how you decide to fly by at the most appropriate of moments."

"I am not yet accustomed to sarcasm, but by the way Sam is making his way out of the bar and you have turned a rather bright shade of red, I am certain that in this circumstance my arrival is not wanted."

"Sam is... that bastard." Dean sneered, watching as the girl heightened herself to ask his brother something.

"Is that guy an angel?" She probed, glancing inquisitively at the Dean and Castiel.

"Only in my brother's eyes." Sam assured her, opening the door like a proper gentlemen.

Dean sighed at the sight of Bobby snoring with his head evidently glued to the table and begrudgingly pulled out Sam's evacuated bar stool in an attempt to hint at the angel to sit down without having to lose his dignity by actually voicing the request. "Sit." He urged, when Castiel made no effort to move, still staring at Dean like he was worried he'd offended the other man. "Now."

Castiel nodded, sitting nervously on the stool as he tried to find his balance.

"We," Dean smiled, pushing Bobby's leftover whiskey shots towards Castiel, "are going to get wasted."

"Dean, I..."

"No, no, no." Dean stopped him, holding up his palm like a native american tribe leader calling for silence or some shit like that. "Drink."

By the end of the night, Castiel did feel something slightly disorienting in the pit of his stomach, and had grown quite accustomed to the taste of hard liquor in the company of Dean- even if the other stayed predominantly silent.

Dean was feeling just as disoriented with some freaky thing prodding at him in his brain and his stomach and, God save us all if he were to admit this, but his stupid frickin' heart, and it sure as hell wasn't the drink doing it.

It was newly discovered trench coat fetish.

* * *

**II.  
**

It would seem fitting to continue this tall tale the next morning, at the moment when Dean wakes up and realises the apocalypse is happening again- though this time in his aching, aching head- before being slapped silly by Bobby who tells Dean and a virtually _glowing _Sam that he is never leaving the house with those two idjits again.

However, it would be more entertaining to pick up this story at Dean's next encounter with his fucked up feelings- approximately two weeks after the bar incident. Well, _that _bar incident. Because coincidentally, this event happens in a much louder, rowdier- but still alcohol serving, praise the Lord- bar, and this time neither Dean or Sam are getting laid. Yet.

"This guy!" Dean grinned, poking a rather attractively built man on his shoulder with a pool cue. "_This, _Sammy, is my type o'guy!"

Sam rolled his eyes and pocketed the money he'd just gained from playing a real game of pool with a couple of kids a few tables down. Apparently, during his absence, Dean had drunk way over his suggested amount and had now made best friends with a man called Brad. Brad was still sober and evidently wanted more than best friends.

Dean leant awkwardly forward so Sam could feel his breath on his ear and smell whatever disgusting thing Dean was downing. "Good music." He hissed, not aware that he was whispering it loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. "Good music, if I was gay, that is what I would want in a man. Not creepy guys who don't even know what a cassette tape is! No, no, no. This guy, Brad here, he likes AC/DC and Black Sabbath and you know what- he said that he doesn't think they sound as good on iPods as they do on tapes. Perfect man!" Dean returned to his previous position and slung a merry arm around Brad's shoulder. "Perfect fucking man!"

Sam could almost taste the bitter sting on denial floating in the air.

He could also feel someone standing right next to him, which he couldn't a few seconds ago.

"Hey, Castiel." He welcomed the angel. "You might not wanna see this."

"What is Dean doing?" Castiel asked, as Dean continued blatantly feeling Brad's biceps in an attempt to prove that muscular guys would be so much better than skinny guys in trench coats. In a totally straight way, of course. With no hidden connotations.

"He's being drunk and stupid." Sam mused. "You wanna help drag him out of here?"

Castiel furrowed his brow as the display of obvious attraction continued before him. He had never objected to Dean's promiscuity before, and he certainly wasn't against homosexual fornication, but he feared for what had caused this sudden change.

"Perhaps Dean wishes to remain behind with this man." Castiel thought aloud, noticing that Dean's new love interest was leaning into the touch most eagerly. "I wouldn't want to ruin his night."

"Cas." Sam sighed. "He's just over compensating with this guy, using him to hide up all his other feelings. He doesn't even _like _men."

"Then why is he looking at him like that?"

"Because he doesn't know you're here yet." Sam replied, before bringing his hands up to his mouth and shouting: "DEAN. CASTIEL'S HERE. THE SKINNY GUY WHO DOESN'T LISTEN TO AC/DC OR BLACK SABBATH. YOU KNOW, THE ONE YOU'D NEVER BE ATTRACTED TO IN A MILLION YEARS."

Castiel frowned. Sam smirked.

Dean whipped his head around frantically and instantly whitened when he locked eyes with Castiel, Brad absentmindedly sliding away from Dean's grip in an attempt to not intervene in a lover's quarrel.

"Cas." Dean breathed, frozen.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean let his eyes pass quickly between Sam and Cas, and occasionally Brad who was still quickly trying to plot an escape route in his mind without drawing any attention from the two guys staring really intensely at each other, and one moose sized guy grinning like an idiot.

"What, what are you doing here?" Dean slurred, trying to manoeuvre himself towards his brother and the angel and completely forgetting his muscular man with good music taste. "Why aren't you in Heaven with the chicks with harps and... boobs." The question was asked with an extreme earnestness and Castiel was forced to look at Sam with a pleading expression of 'I do not understand what your drunk brother is insinuating, nor know how to reply.'

"What Dean means." Sam nodded towards Dean with a reassuring smile, which Dean returned enthusiastically. "Is what brings you here, when there's so much happening in Heaven?"

Castiel grimaced and patted the sides of his trench-coat with evident uncertainty. "I do not know." He admitted, glancing up sheepishly at the Winchesters. "I felt the need to be in your company for a few hours."

"Dude!" Dean shouted, pulling Castiel into a tight embrace and refusing to let go. "He just wants to hang out! Cas just wants to hang, bro!"

Sam rolled his eyes and felt in his jacket for the Impala and motel keys, both still where they should be. Castiel could mojo Dean and himself back to the room whenever their inanely uncomfortable hug was finished, so Sam coughed his goodbye and headed out the door, right behind- but at a considerably slower pace- a defeated looking Brad.

* * *

**III.  
**

"Who the fuck is Brad?" Dean grumbled the next morning, waking Sam up from his quite peaceful sleep. Sam rolled over and saw Dean staring at his arm like it had fallen off. Though if his arm had fallen off, he wouldn't have been able to stare at it. Whatever, Sam was too tired to come up with a sensible simile.

"You don't remember?"

"Of course I do." Dean spat. "I just wanted to bring your attention to the fact that there's a _guy's _name and number written on my arm in biro, because obviously I am so proud of the fact that I was apparently picking up men last night."

Even Castiel would pick up on that sarcasm.

"Don't worry," Sam yawned as he brushed a hand through his hair. "Your ass virginity is still in tact."

Dean did noticeably relax at that note, but he was still sitting up a little too straightly- as if trying to personify his own heterosexuality. "No kissing?"

"No kissing." Sam said slowly, forming a most excellent plan in his mind. "Castiel, on the other hand..."

"Cas... Castiel... he, he kissed someone?"

"Uh, huh." He nodded. "Well, I assume it went as far as kissing, they went outside for a bit though."

"Outside." Dean repeated, now staring straight ahead.

"Outside." Sam confirmed.

"Uh, huh." Dean repeated.

Dean's daze gave Sam the opportunity to chuck his rather hard motel pillow straight into Dean's head, his brother hardly reacting, except for the blink of an eye and a small tug on the pillow as he brought it close to his chest and cuddled it inattentively.

"What was his name?"

Sam faltered and quickly searched the room for inspiration. Figuring that the name 'Lamp' or 'Cabinet' was far too exotic for wherever the hell they were this week, he just shrugged and said: "I don't know, man. He wasn't particularly interested in talking to us, if you know what I mean."

"Heh, yeah. Well, good for Cas! Nice to see him getting some action." Dean chuckled weakly, falling back into a laying position and staring up at the ceiling. "He deserves it." He added quietly.

Unsure whether he should break out the old "haha, just kidding" line now or not, Sam studied his brother's position and reaction and had to admit that it was much than he was expecting. Dean was practically cradling the pillow and his lips were moving just slightly, as if he were mumbling reassurances under his breath, or perhaps praying to every other angel that wasn't Castiel.

So maybe Sam's feeling a little bad right at this moment.

"You wanna sleep some more?" He asked kindly, and a little hopefully.

"I wanna drink, Sammy." Dean replied, aware that morning drinking wasn't the best cure for an already looming hangover, but there was a large chance it would rid of any memories from this morning- sending them to drunkland with any recollection of Brad and Castiel's mystery man.

"Well, we can go to the bar." Sam said apprehensively. "But you're not having any alcohol, we'll get some coffee and discuss where we wanna look next for that woman's husband."

"Dude, we can't go into a bar and ask for _coffee, _who does that?"

"Well it's a brightly lit diner with happy people and Justin Bieber on the stereo, or that dingy pub with hardly any windows and a bartender that I'm pretty sure is a zombie."

Dean contemplated this with a screwed up expression and a desire to pee. "Bar." He declared, before running to the bathroom.

Sam flung his legs over the side of his bed and rummaged through the drawers for an outfit that would draw as little attention to him as possible, because he could tell Dean was in the mood to cause a scene, and that was never good. When Dean returned, looking a little chirpier, they both stumbled out the room and into the shitty Saturday sunlight.

* * *

"Hey! This place is bitchin' right?" A really excitable, skinny, twenty something year old shouted over the loud music, bringing his waist to the side of Dean's and grinning like a five year old who had just seen a bouncy castle in his back garden.

Dean did not want to be this guy's bouncy castle.

"I totally love the vibes you get here and the music is _rockin', _you know? You wanna dance? Come on, get that frown off your face!" Smiley was really pissing Dean off.

"Why are we here, Sammy?" Dean growled under his breath, just loud enough for his brother to hear.

"Because you said you didn't want to spend one more minute in that God-forsaken bar, and this club's the only other place in town open at ten o'clock."

"I hate this town."

"I know." Sam nodded, as Captain Chuckles curled a finger into Dean's hair and tried to tug him towards the dance floor. "Believe me, I know."

After Dean outright shoved the guy out the way, he finally gave up and sulked away to his group of similarly eccentric friends. Dean sighed and rested his head in his hands.

"He's not my type, either." He said irritably, and Sam was about to comment on the fact that Dean seemed to be actively _searching _for his type of man now, but was interrupted by Castiel pushing through some teenage dancers in neon tutus and sitting down beside Dean on the plush purple sofa- looking like he'd just ran a mile away from a ten foot hooker.

"I do not like this place." He stated, sending a weary glance around the club.

"Neither do I." Dean agreed, slapping a welcoming hand on Castiel's back and then scrunching his face up and staring at his bruised hand. "Dude, I forgot how solid you are."

"I'm an Ang-"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it."

Castiel stared at his hands, momentarily lost. He looked like he had something to say, but had neither the ability or confidence to share his thoughts, so just picked up Dean's drink and swallowed it in one.

"Hey, that's my drink!" Dean shrieked, as Sam sent the angel a concerned glance.

"Drinking away problems isn't the answer, Cas."

"I've learnt from the best." Castiel snapped back, eyeing Dean bitterly.

"Don't blame me." Dean replied, holding his hands out. "Spent too many long hours with Bobby."

"Whatever." Sam said, losing faith at seeing an Angel of the Lord try and wash away his feelings with alcohol. "I'm out of here, I'll see you guys back at the motel."

"Buzzkill." Dean muttered when his brother's back was turned.

"Dean, perhaps we should leave this place too, I don't feel comfortable here." Castiel looked wistfully after Sam, and this got Dean more riled up than it should.

"You." He said, prodding Castiel in the stomach lightly- to save him the damage, not the angel. "Aren't comfortable anywhere. We're staying."

Castiel nodded, before his eyes grew wide and his eyebrows arched inwards and his mouth parted and Dean was half expecting Raphael to stroll off the dance floor in a pair of white flairs. Instead, what he saw was a very well built, attractive man, looking just as panicked at the sight of Dean and Castiel as Cas did looking at him. Suddenly, Dean understood.

"_No kissing." Sam said."Castiel, on the other hand..."_

"_Cas... Castiel... he, he kissed someone?"_

"_Uh, huh." Sam nodded. "Well, I assume it went as far as kissing, they went outside for a bit though._

"That's him, then?" Dean shrugged as casually as he could muster.

"Yes." Castiel nodded, looking from Dean to last night's kissing partner nervously, like he was expecting them to jump on each other or something. Yeah, right. Dean wasn't that protective.

"So what happened with him?"

"Well, when I arrived you broke away from him and embraced me. I believe he found the exchange meant something more profound, so he made his leave. I do not know what occurred before the time of my arrival, I apologise."

Dean raised his eyebrows and faced Castiel. "Wait, that was Brad?"

Castiel nodded. "I believe that's his name, yes."

"And you didn't kiss him?"

"I haven't kissed anyone in quite a while." Castiel blushed, but did not avert his gaze from Dean's.

"But Sam said... Oh, that dick. He is such an asshole."

"What did your brother do?" Castiel asked quietly, innocently picking up Sam's discarded drink before drinking it himself.

"Don't- don't worry, Cas." Dean replied distractedly as his eyes widened, watching Castiel lift the large glass of beer and begin to gulp it down relentlessly. His gaze was fixed on Cas' smooth neck line as it waved and danced with each swallow. The motion was mesmerising and Dean could almost see every inch of every bone on the angel's throat as each gulp kept the rhythm going. When he'd finished, Castiel placed the glass down and wiped the excess liquid from his lips with the back of his hands, leaving Dean to study Castiel's mouth, his pink lips now glistening in the horrible lighting of the club. "Say, Cas..." Dean began, trying to find an appropriate way to phrase his thoughts. "Do you have a type?"

"A type?" Castiel asked, tilting his head at just the right angle for Dean to push forward and press his lips to the sensitive part that always made the girls moan. But Dean was going to take this slow, or not do anything at all as the case may be.

"Yeah, you know, like what you're attracted to."

Castiel considered this, before nodding slightly. "As an angel, I don't tend to see physical attraction." He started, letting his hands hold the sides of Sam's glass. "I see deeper, learn from the souls and the emotions of the humans I see to differ those I wish to connect to, and those I don't. My type would be the passionate type, the strong-willed and defiant who still remain modest, after al the great they've done. The rude and crude, but only because they need the humour to keep them going, to keep them saving souls day after day." Castiel paused and furrowed his brow as he looked towards the dance floor. "There are so little people these days who remain individual and truly passionate and loving towards their family and friends."

Dean's mouth had run dry and he was trying to recite Cas' speech in his brain so he could create an imaginary check box, ticking everything he was and crossing everything he wasn't so he could make a very informed, Sam-like, decision. To his surprise, Castiel carried on.

"However, I believe as I become more accustomed to having a vessel and living amongst humans here on Earth, I have developed the trait of physical attraction to those that are considered handsome or beautiful. In that sense, I'm quite attuned to green eyes, because they're the rarest I have seen, and in some people it reflects the individuality of their souls."

Dean was mumbling things under his breath like _passionate, strong-willed, rude, crude, humour, saving, loving, family, green eyes. _He was so caught up in his personalised match-making that he didn't realise Castiel had stopped talking and was waiting for some sort of response.

He looked up, meeting the angel's eyes, and Dean was left to ponder how gay it would be to describe the colour of the his eyes, or if he should just skip the mental description because it's not really necessary- Dean can _see _the colour, he doesn't have to try and articulate the iris' of the dude he's in... like with. Dude, celestial being, whatever.

If it was absolutely essential, Dean would say that they were the colour of his _cool mint mouthwash, _just less translucent and far, far denser- filled with curiosity, conflict, memory and such complex emotions that each one could have a different shade, blending together to form a spectrum of blue bright enough to ignite fear in the strongest of foes.

But Dean wasn't a character in one of Sam's secret, shitty romance novels, so he stuck with the fact that Cas has blue eyes, and they were looking directly at him.

Looking at him, staring into his soul- same difference.

Castiel didn't seem affected by the fact that Dean didn't respond, just tilted his head slightly and allowed a minuscule smirk to grace his stubble littered face. "Was that a sufficient answer?"

Dean gulped. "Yeah." He croaked out. "Yeah, it was."

"Do you have a type, Dean?" Cas asked, almost, _almost, _flirtatiously.

Dean considered this, because he really did. It was a very specific type, he doubted the idea that their may be more than one person to fit the criteria, but it was his very favourite type.

"Skinny guys in trench coats." Dean smiled. "Oh, and with wings."

He leaned in close to Castiel's shocked face, pressing his forehead against the angel's so their noses nearly touched and their breath mingled excitedly between them.

"Now zap us to the motel room, Scotty."

* * *

**IV.**

"This... isn't our motel room." Dean commented, but didn't move away from the angel. In fact, he stalked closer, holding the lapels of Cas' coat and bringing them mere inches apart.

"Sam was in your motel room." Cas said breathlessly, the anticipation turning his usually strong, low voice, into that of a horny teenager getting his first blow job. "I thought it appropriate to find the nearest empty room."

Dean's mind quickly flicked to the image of a couple coming home to the sight of Dean and Castiel naked and writhing in their neatly made bed, but he really couldn't care about getting caught at this moment 'cause he was about to kiss an angel.

An angel. A fucking angel.

Well, not fucking in the literal sense, but that section of the realisation did take up quite a significant space in the forefront of Dean's brain.

"You- you're okay with this, right? I mean, you weren't just rambling in there, you were dropping not so subtle hints?" They were now chest to chest and lips so painfully close together that the sexual tension had decided that it couldn't deal with the stress of overwork and quit, leaving Castiel and Dean to their own devices.

"Dean. I have watched many women and quite a few men, recently, try to gain your attention. I believe I deserve this."

Dean chuckled and licked his lips subconsciously. "You are _so _gonna get what you deserve." He grinned, taking Castiel's lips with his own and letting his hands drag from Cas' waist to his shoulders, thread his finger's through his hair and tug it enough to make the angel gasp into his mouth and lose his freaky, angel of the Lord inhibitions, and just go with it- placing his own hands on Dean's waist and edging as close as he could get whilst they kissed and moved together perfectly. "I'm totally gonna bang an angel." Dean laughed, and Castiel looked positively offended that the kissing had stopped.

Sam lay in bed, momentarily proud of himself, before wishing that Castiel had flown to an empty room non-adjacent to his own.

Angel's were fucking loud during sex.

* * *

Fin.


End file.
